Anonymous

I’m going to tell you a secret.   

I write historical romance novels. Good ones. As in, the kind that stir up fan bases. The kind that fly off those old-fashioned things called shelves and rack up downloaded e-books. 

You might think I’d be puffed up and proud. I mean, success in publishing—who achieves that? 

The words are real, the sales are real.  But I have never told anyone I’m the pro behind the prose. I hide behind a pen name, a nom de plume, a pseudonym. I don’t dare tell my friends and colleagues. What would they think? I’ve heard them call the genre pornography for bored housewives! 

Are they kidding? It’s my talent, my natural gift. I took my ability to write and my history education and began spinning the yarns. Bored housewives, my foot. 

And yet I’ve kept all of the work and the success a secret.  Sad but true. I’m more intimidated by literary snobbism than I am proud of my own achievements. Besides, I’m such a non-romantic, I wager no one would believe it of me anyway. 

Some other authors have stated that attitudes towards the romance genre have changed.  Have they? You tell me. I found an honest-to-goodness brick and mortar used book shop—like catnip to me, really.   Some of my older titles kept company with the works of fellow phantom romantics. But I went poking around for the classic old romance novels--those of the legendary bodice ripper days. I found none.  

The owner pursed her lips at me. "I don't carry those books," she sneered. 

 "Really." I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. "Practicing censorship?" 

 "Not at all. I just don't read that kind of book." 

 "Tell me, have you ever read a romance novel?" 

 "Absolutely not!" 

 Aha. A literary bigot. They do exist. "It seems silly to me to exclude an entire genre of reading based on what may not be an accurate impression of the genre." 

 She shrugged. "I don't need to read them. I know what they're all about." 

That's the kind of attitude which has gotten books burned on bonfires. It's also gotten people burned at the stake. 

I won't go into the gory details of my ensuing dispute with the woman, save to say she displayed a bias against the genre of love which I have found to be alive and well all over. That's bad enough. What makes it worse is the apologetic attitude romance fans then think they need assume. I've seen them in Books A Million, I've seen them in Barnes and Noble. They approach the check-out counter with timidity in their eyes. I've seen them on the bus, hiding their books behind purses or newspapers. I've read and heard their academic credentials, as they somehow think this lends validity to their reading selections. 

Let me tell you something. I read romance. I read lots of other things, too. The only justification I need is that I enjoy it. I enjoy the transport. That's why I read fiction. Know what? I've never encountered any leery stares or looks of disapproval. I've never been put down by friends and colleagues who detest the genre, simply because they know the me that does the reading. I've also never given anyone any reason for grief (save the woman at the bookstore, but I saw that more as a philosophical issue) by trying to defend my selection of reading material. 

Love it or hate it, the romance genre is here to stay. It has been around for as long as man has written. Fiction is preference--it is subjective. It is meant to be enjoyed, not debated in such ways. 

There are two sides to this issue: the fans and the foes. To both sides I say, lighten up. 

Blind dismissal of an entire genre is bad. Try rattling off an "impressive" list of academic and professional credentials as proof of not being the typical romance-reading housewife, sitting home all day with snack cakes in one hand and a novel in the other. The genre can't be justified by the credentials of its fans, and credentials alone do not justify the romance reader 

So here’s my story of romantic fiction and why it matters. 

If humanity has had a story to tell, it has been about this peculiar entity called love. From the earliest writings of Sumerian love poems and the Song of Solomon to the latest best sellers, we have been captivated and stimulated by tales of love and passion. 

Well. Maybe not all of us. 

Let's consider the lords of the early Middle Ages in Europe. These were burly men of battle. When not actually fighting, they wanted to hear tales of battle. They wanted to enjoy the praises of brute force. The famous Chanson de Roland has its origins in such settings. A wandering poet needs shelter for the night, and to gain shelter, he must please the lord with a tale. The poet then spins a tale of warriors. 

This was great, if you were into that sort of thing. But what of those individuals who preferred something softer? 

Enter the troubadours of the 11th-13th centuries and the birth of courtly love. Now the lords were away on the Crusades and other wars. Their wives and ladies were left behind to tend the castle and lay the foundations of Western literature. After enduring countless tales of blood and gore, the women welcomed stories which were a bit more evocative, a bit more imaginative, a bit more--romantic. 

Since the poets now had to please a new audience, they changed the nature of their tales. Yes, there were love tales, but these tales included much more than a simply love story. There were supernatural elements, magic rings and cloaks to render the wearer invisible. There were love potions and guises and mistaken identities. Through it all, the listener was asked to feel, to emote. These were not one-dimensional characters anymore, but characters into whom life had been breathed. 

There. Now you know the dangerous truth about me. Will I ever come clean to the world?

Emilie J. Conroy

ejconroy778@gmail.com