R is for Romance—And the Kindle Under My Pillow

Why did they put all the hard letters near the end of the alphabet, making the A to Z Blogger Challenge harder as we go along? My prompt word for the letter R was an easy choice, but looking ahead to V, W, Y, and Z has me shaking in my proverbial boots. You may have noticed that I overuse the word proverbial. But then I also lean on trite little sayings like “shaking in my boots.” So the root solution is for me to quit being lazy in my writing.

Okay, I’ve filibustered enough. Time to explain why I picked Romance for my word prompt. I have three answers.

One: I was boy crazy in my teens. I mean really, really boy crazy—so much so that if one so much as looked at me, I’d break into giggles that telegraphed the fact that I was jailbait. I’m sure my mother appreciated that.

Two: I was hooked on reading romance novels in my 40s and 50s. I don’t remember how I found my first one, but I do remember being shocked at how fast I could read in my 40s compared to college. My mom always had Regency romances in the house, so maybe that was my gateway “drug.” But that sub-genre reminds me of Hallmark movies where the main characters don’t kiss until the last five minutes. I quickly moved up the sensual ladder where I discovered historical romances. (Don't tell anyone but I even tried writing a historical romance once.) 

Like men who claim they bought Playboy for the articles, I was quick to say I liked historicals for the history. But all kidding side, they often sent me to the library to fact-check because I didn’t always believe what I read. Soon I learned which authors did solid research and which ones didn’t. When I downsized nearly five years ago, I had hundreds of romance “favorites” to dispose of. I kept only three: Morning Glory by LaVyrle Spencer, The Outsider by Penelope Williamson, and The Knight in Shining Armor by Jude Deveraux. The next time I downsize, I’ll only keep the latter. Not that I’d need to—I have it on my old Kindle, which I keep under my pillow. 

Until recently, I used to listen to bits of that book to fall asleep. I’d set the timer for a half hour, and when I got up in the night to pee, I’d reset it for ten minutes so I wouldn’t start thinking about the day past or the one ahead. I’ve logged so many hours on that book that Amazon sends me emails that translate to: Hey, lady-in-a-rut, Jude wrote other books. We think you’d like such-and-such.

Three: While I might be old, I still enjoy looking at eye candy in the form of good-looking men and occasionally daydreaming about what it’s like to be young and in love again. I blame it on being artistic. In college I had to take a lot of figure drawing classes with nude models. Now, I might admire a man’s chest or well-chiseled arms, but only because I can imagine drawing his form in pastel chalk. Are you buying that? You should, because I’m not a cougar type who wants to touch what catches my eye.

And please know that the ages of my preferred eye candy have changed over the years. When I was in my teens, any male over twenty scared the pants off me (another overused expression). And here’s where I should probably admit that eye candy has more to do with sexual attraction than romance. Oops. Forget I wrote this paragraph.

That was fun. Now I need to get serious and explain why I have such fond memories of reading romance novels and how I owe the genre for giving me an amazing turnaround in my love of reading. I shared in my post for E is for Education that I’m mildly dyslexic, and although I still won’t read out loud in public—some words still don’t compute in my brain—I’m no longer ashamed to admit my past struggles with the written word. And maybe that’s the real gift romance gave me. I may not chase romance anymore, but I still chase stories to blog about — and that’s enough of a happily‑ever‑after for me. © 

My Eclectic Reading List

Sometimes the reactions the women in book club have to certain things that happen in books make me feel like I was brought up in a brothel or a shack on the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak, because I'm rarely shocked by some of the life experiences we've read about. And for the record I probably didn't even know what a brothel was until I was in my twenties, I was as naive back then as a few of my fellow residents around here still seem to be. But I am a woman who cut my reading teeth on romance books and over the years I've read all the sub-genres of romance from super straight-laced Victorians to Historicals to erotica to Amish Romances and Rom-Coms. The latter is my current favorite. Quick to read, don't tax my brain, occasionally make me laugh out loud. What's not to like?

The point I'm trying to make is that I'm rarely offended by what an author thinks a reader needs to know to carry a plot forward but when an author crosses over to write gratuitous sex scenes it's pretty easy for me to spot and that can get pretty boring. I quit reading Susan Stoker's military romances, for example, because she included S&M in two books and I don't care how much she tried to justify her characters liking the Fifty Shades of Grey antics in the bedroom, I don't believe they belong in any book marketed as 'Romance.' It's not mentally healthy nor good for women (or men) to be sold a bill of goods that whatever happens between two consenting adults is just fine and dandy. It's not. Don't even try to tell me about safe words and how pain and pleasure are supposedly only a fine line apart. I'm never going to buy it. 

Our book club here on the continuum care campus is reading a coming-of-age book that no one seems to be enjoying and no one is owning up to having picked it for our reading list. It was the conversation at our Monday dinner table and I was shocked to learn that two women in the club were offended by the description of the sexual scenes. One woman quit reading Maame after the first one (Chapter 5) where the protagonist lost her virginity and another lady was considering doing the same after the second one (chapter 7). I was totally confused because I couldn't recall either scene and I when I got home, I searched the book and I found out that neither scene was more than a page of description and rather bland description at that. What did that say about me that I read them and they didn't even register, much less register as something that could easily offend anyone. I was even more confused by the third and final sexual encounter which was a four on a scale of ten for hotness. I was braced for a down and dirty, page after page affair based on the negative comments I'd heard. Didn't happen. But I was happy that the main character finally got some pleasure out of these consensual encounters. All in all it was forgettable book.

Our December/January book club selection (discussed in February) was The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese. It was over 700 pages long which is why we allowed two months instead of one to read it. It's a family saga style book that covers three generations and I've never liked that kind of book. Every day for two months I spent an hour in India and at first I was enjoying the expert writing and colorful descriptions of a part of the world and a culture I knew little about. But about three-forths of the way through the novel it felt like I was back in the work force with a quota to make every day. I ended up quitting the book about 125 pages short of finishing. I just didn’t care anymore. The others in book club told me I missed the best part. 

We also read The Book of Lost Names by Kritin Harmel which was based on a true story about a young woman who used her art talents to forge documents for Jewish children who were being smuggled out of harm's way during WWII. I loved that book. I also loved The Beekeeper of Aleppo by Christry Lefteri which was about another part of the world I knew little about---the Syrian War, the refugee camps the displaced population lived in and what it took to immigrate to a safer part of the world. In both of theses books the authors were able to make you care about their fictionalized characters. When reading stories based on real events I'm often amazed at what the human spirit can endure and come out the other side with most of their marbles still intact. 

Other book Club sections: An Immense World by Ed Yong is a book that I'm sure I wrote about already and How the Word is Passed: A Reckoning with the History of Slavery Across America by Clint Smith which I'm sure I haven't written about. All I have to say about the latter book is that it's always interesting in book club when we read something that involved black history or a black point of view that our resident Trump fan feels obligated to defend racism. Gotta give her credit for standing up for her beliefs no matter how out of touch with reality and common sense they are.

Other than book club selections I've read three popcorn romances by Pippa Grant---books you read in a hurry and quickly forget. But based on the reaction the ladies in my book club had toward the sex scenes in Maame I'd never share this author's books around here. Reading Pippa Grant's descriptions would put a few ladies into cardiac arrest. ©

 Until next Wednesday.